


Some Bite

by Anonymous



Category: Beauty and the Beast (2017)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Disturbing Themes, Enemies, M/M, Unreliable Narrator, Xenophilia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-08
Updated: 2017-04-08
Packaged: 2018-10-16 06:19:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,867
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10565382
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Gaston's heroic image faded after the end of the war. But a chance encounter with a magic castle might just renew his glory.After all, no Beast stands a chance against Gaston.





	

**Author's Note:**

> See end notes for content warnings.

Gaston was pissed.

His ankle ached, and his abdomen itched under his bandages, and the household servants barely spoke to him when they came to change his dressings. They refused, under any circumstances, to join him in revolt against their hideous master. And they would not bring him beer—beer, of course, being the one thing that might distract Gaston from the fact that a wardrobe watched him sleep. Worse, the Beast hadn't shown his ugly face once since he'd dragged Gaston back to the castle.

“He saved your life,” the awful talking teapot had said, when Gaston had woken up in bandages and slings and started screaming curses at the absent Beast. “You could show some gratitude.”

“That monster probably wounded me himself just to keep me here!”

“Oh, I very much doubt that.”

But Gaston knew the truth: he would have had those wolves for pelts without the Beast's interference. He scratched his chest over the bandages and glared at the canopy hanging over his bed. The villagers must have formed a mob or three by now, in hopes of finding their missing war hero. Someone would find him here, unless the Beast's blasted magic interfered …

The thought bothered Gaston, as thoughts often did. He didn't know how much time had passed since he'd first stumbled onto the castle grounds. He didn't know if he'd been forgotten by the village as soon as he'd stepped foot here. He didn't know how many people would really, truly care if they noticed he was gone …

Enough!

Of course they'd care. Men would moan. Women would weep. It was only a misunderstanding that had forced him from the tavern that night he'd wandered the forest and found the Beast. Gaston's glories in the war hadn't faded. Everyone still considered him a hero, whatever … lack of direction … he'd suffered during peace.

Gaston shifted upright and turned to the wardrobe. “Why won't the Beast face me?”

The wardrobe ignored him, like everything else in this wretched place.

Gaston fell back into his pillows with a huff. And that's when he noticed a cane leaning at an angle in the corner of the room. “You,” he said. “Come here.”

The cane remained in place.

“Come here or I'll kill you.”

Nothing.

“Fine then,” Gaston said. “I'll go get you. And then I will burn this entire castle to the ground and carry the Beast's head back to the village.”

The wardrobe flapped one drawer.

Gaston shrieked and pulled his blankets to his chin.

“You do that, dear.” The wardrobe yawned and went still.

It would be the first to die, Gaston vowed to himself. After he found some beer.

*

Gaston hobbled down the hallway, panting and sweaty. Only a monster would design a castle with so many stairs.

He had gone to the first floor of the castle, figuring that it would have whole rooms devoted to storing wine and beer. But it took four times as long to limp with his cane as it did to tromp with confidence—the only way Gaston ever walked. And doors kept creaking and shutting around him, forcing him to move down longer and longer halls. His ankle burned and the wounds on his stomach ... also burned.

When he passed what had to be the same gargoyle for the fourth time, Gaston swore and leaned his back against the wall. “Is this your plan, Beast? Have you trapped me in your maze?”

“My maze,” the Beast said, “looks a lot like a straightforward hallway.”

The monster stepped forth from a particularly dark shadow, hungry eyes gleaming.

Gaston swung his cane—

The Beast attacked him. Huge paws closed around Gaston's arms. The cane fell from Gaston's hand.

Gaston bucked his head and clobbered his skull against the Beast's chin. It did nothing to dislodge the Beast's grip. Gaston twisted. His mouth filled with thick hide.

“Did you just bite me?” The Beast sounded incredulous.

Gaston spat the monster's fur from his mouth. “Unhand me, Beast!”

The Beast released Gaston. Gaston dropped to the floor and yelped. He pressed a hand to his stomach and felt wet bandages. He looked down and saw blood.

Iron filled his nostrils. Smoke drifted across his tongue. 

“I wouldn't have bothered saving you from wolves if I'd known you were this eager to hurt yourself.” The Beast crouched down to Gaston's level, albeit from a safe distance. Cowardly animal.

“I had them where I wanted them.”

“I suppose the same goes for me.” A mocking glint entered the Beast's horrible eyes.

“Yes.” Gaston looked for his cane and saw it just out of reach. He wouldn't be able to grab it before the Beast ripped out his throat.

“I tremble in fear,” the Beast said, “of you bleeding to death and ruining my carpet. Truly, you are a creature of unparalleled cunning.”

The Beast was making fun of him. Gaston felt his cheeks flush red. Fury gripped his hard-beating heart. “I will destroy you, Beast. Make no mistake about that.”

“Be my guest.” The Beast grabbed Gaston by the collar and dragged him upright. Gaston's hands flew to the Beast's wrist, but he couldn't dislodge his hold any more than he could will his blood to stop flowing, or his head to stop throbbing, or for explosions to stop firing behind his eyes …

Gaston choked under the Beast's paw. Gray clouds moved across vision.

“You know, Master,” said some tiny voice. “The man has promised to mount your head on his wall. Benevolence might not be the best call.”

Gaston thought he heard the Beast snort as the world faded from view.

*

Gaston woke up in a library. He rubbed his ears against fading screams—the ghosts of glories past—and took in a crackling fire, endless shelves crowded with endless books. He was sitting upright in a plush chair. He spotted his cane resting near the fireplace. New bandages adorned his chest.

“You're not very good at making friends.” That was the Beast, emerging from between bookshelves. “My servants want you locked in the tower. They say you've threatened every soul in the castle. Even the dog.”

“ _Footstools_ shouldn't bark.” 

The Beast raised his terrible eyebrows. “If I didn't know better, I'd think you want me to kill you. Keeping you prisoner was never my plan. You're only here because you promised to bring back a mob the second I release you.”

“More like you want to fatten me for the feast.”

“Ah, yes. That explains saving you from wolves. And giving you a bedroom. And having my servants patch your wounds.” The Beast settled into a chair placed parallel to Gaston's. A heavy-looking round table sat between them. Gaston didn't think he'd be able to throw it at the monster's head before it devoured him. And that was assuming the table itself wouldn't punch him if he tried.

“You didn't save me.” Gaston pushed away thoughts of snapping jaws, foaming mouths. His own screams. No such thing could've happened. Not to the best hunter his town had ever seen. Not to the war's greatest soldier …

And now he was thinking. About war. About how much easier war made things.

Gaston hated thinking. He hated the Beast for making him do things he ... _hated_ was really the best word. “I don't know about you, Beast, but between the two of us, I see only one person who looks the part of the hero.”

“You're insane,” the Beast muttered. “You must be.”

“I'm no fool. Let's say I was in danger in the forest. If you really wanted to keep me from going back to the village, you would've let the wolves kill me. Instead, you dragged me back here. Are you that lonely, Beast? Do you bring your betters here just to have someone to stare at your ugly face?”

The Beast snarled.

In a second, he leapt from his chair to tower over Gaston's. He braced his paws on either side of Gaston's head and bowed down. “ _I_ didn't bring you here. _You_ crawled through my gate, drunk and sniveling, after getting lost in the woods. _You_ begged for your life.”

Gaston shrank back. He knew he could kill the Beast easily, with stealth and weapons on his side. But he had neither at the moment, and he'd already lost blood. He couldn't run, either. Not with his swollen ankle.

Gunpowder coated Gaston's mouth. Ringing filled his ears.

“You're shaking.” The Beast's cruel eyes looked Gaston up and down. His black lips curled in disgust. “Some hero. More like the town drunk. A fool soldier who never left his fool war behind …”

Gaston grabbed the Beast's tattered cloak, leaned up, and kissed him. Bit the Beast's lip, more like. His lip split on a fang, but he didn't back down. He wanted submission. He demanded it. Gaston was a hunter, and a soldier, and a hero. Everybody said so, even those who knew what he'd done—and how much he'd enjoyed it. He wasn't going to take abuse from some … from some …

The Beast made a wretched noise and drew back from their kiss, eyes wide. “You're insane.”

But it was too late for him. Because Gaston had felt him shudder. The Beast _was_ lonely. He slid his fingers over the Beast's throat and felt him swallow. Fear. Gaston liked fear in dumb animals. “When's the last time anyone touched you, Beast?”

The Beast growled and didn't answer, but neither did he move away as Gaston undid the clasp on the Beast's cape. It fell from his shoulders, revealing more Beast than Gaston had ever wanted to see. Short gray-brown fur swirled down his neck and over his chest, growing thicker as it went. It tufted at his belly and elbows. With a natural creature—a stag or bear or boar—Gaston could have found some beauty in the fit of muscle and bone. But this Beast was just ugly.

Gaston's gaze darted over the Beast's hideous form, seeking anything it wouldn't hurt to land on. “You know, Beast, if you were a woman, I'd almost say you have pretty eyes.”

“The eyes are mine.” The response had barely any growl in it.

Gaston curved one hand over the Beast's neck. It would be so easy to squeeze. “Why'd you bring me back here? Do you collect beautiful things, Beast?”

“Maybe I feel flattered by the comparison.” The Beast's paws moved from the chair to Gaston's shoulders. They flexed but didn't claw. “My servants don't find me half as odious with you around.”

Gaston didn't know what any of that meant, except _flattered_. “Maybe you want out of your misery.”

The Beast stepped back. He didn't speak, but Gaston knew that hunted look. He'd seen it in does with dogs' jaws closing over their throats. He'd seen it on battlefields. LeFou's guts spilling over his hands. Countless men moaning, unable to move, crying for water. He'd felt that hopelessness—

No, he hadn't. Not once. Not ever.

Hunter and beast stared at each other from their new-established distance. Gaston wiped blood from his mouth. “Have you read every book in this place?”

“Most of them.”

“Ah.” Gaston scratched his bandages. “That makes sense.”

“How?” the Beast asked. “ _How_ does that make sense to you?”

Gaston shrugged. “Reading is for ugly people who don't have anything better to do, and you're the ugliest thing I've ever seen.”

The Beast barked a laugh that showed every one of his sharp teeth. 

*

“There's two of them. By god, there's  _two_.” The clock spoke from somewhere outside Gaston's bedroom.

“Now, now,” the teapot said, “the master's not as bad as all that. I've told Chip to stay well away from this one. I'll not have my child dashed to pieces.”

“What are we going to do? He'll never break the spell with that brute in the castle!” Gaston didn't recognize that voice. He also didn't care who it was. A talking broom wasn't any better than a talking caddy spoon, as far as anyone with a brain was concerned. And it wasn't like the servants were huddled around discussing anything interesting. So the Beast had some wilting flowers and a birthday. Who didn't?

Gaston closed his eyes and sank into his pillows, and he imagined scenes of future glory. He'd stride into town with the Beast's head swinging from one hand. The villagers would stream from their houses. They'd see Gaston, and they'd cheer. It wouldn't matter _to them_  that the Beast had wanted to die, or that Gaston was too injured to meet him in a fair fight. That he must've found the Beast … unguarded.

His mind flashed, unwillingly, to their kiss.

Paws thudded outside. Metal and porcelain clinked as the servants beat a quick retreat. “And how is the patient?” An animal voice rumbled. 

Gaston opened his eyes and saw the Beast standing in his doorway. The monster's cloak swamped his shoulders. He held a bottle of wine in one paw. The taunt in his eyes disguised nothing. The Beast would continue sparing his prisoner, if only to shorten his own damned life.

“Do you know, Beast, what it takes to be a hero?” 

“I've never thought about it much.” The Beast lifted one shoulder as he entered the room. “Strength. Bravery. Chivalry, I suppose. Loyalty to church and country. Kindness towards old women. A certain capacity for  _love_.”

Gaston didn't understand the bitter edge in the Beast's voice, so he ignored it. “Do you get all your stupid ideas from books?” 

The Beast huffed. “How would you define it, then?”

He tossed the wine at Gaston—

—who caught the bottle mid-air.

Gaston blinked at his reflection in the green glass. It was a good reflection, with a noble nose and strong jaw. He turned the bottle between his hands and kept his eyes fixed on that image. That _heroic_ image. 

“Well?” The Beast sneered. 

Gaston tested the cork with his teeth and found it already loose. He spat it across the room. He swigged the wine. It tasted smooth. Expensive. 

“Philistine.” The Beast sat at the end of Gaston's bed. 

“Thank you.” Gaston offered the bottle to the Beast.

The Beast looked surprised, but he accepted the bottle. He eyed it for a second, then shrugged and drank with a gross flap of tongue and jowl. He handed the wine back to Gaston. “I suppose you need admirers, to be a hero. That's the whole point of saving lives, I'm sure. People tend to admire their saviors.”

“Not always.”

“You don't say.”

“Heroes have to be the best.”

“That's vague,” the Beast said. “And it doesn't make sense. Someone might eat bread faster than anyone else, or be especially good at thieving. I might be the best at terrorizing wayward villagers. No one's going to call _me_ a hero.”

“Of course not,” Gaston said. “You're a monster.”

The Beast smiled without displaying any teeth.

They traded the bottle back and forth. The wine warmed Gaston's blood. It chased thoughts from his mind. The Beast was beyond ugly, and Gaston so fine a specimen. It was only natural that the Beast would want to die, that Gaston would want to kill him, that the Beast would enter Gaston's life when he most needed new glory. Good things happened to good … heroes. 

Horses screamed. Cannons burst. LeFou begged for his mother. For Gaston. For Gaston not to tell LeFou's mother.

Gaston rolled the wine bottle between his hands. It wouldn't take much to kill the Beast. He'd break the bottle on a bedpost, then stab him in the throat. The Beast would gurgle and whistle. He might die too quickly to eviscerate Gaston.

Then again, he might not. 

And Gaston's ankle was still sprained, and his bite wounds still pulled, and it would be a long tromp to the village in snow and while carrying a monster's head. Gaston would have to move quickly. The servants were his enemies, maybe even more than the Beast …

“You're thinking,” the Beast said.

Gaston bristled. “Never.”

“I should remind you that you're injured. If you bash my brains in now, you won't make it back to the village with my head or paws or whatever else you'd take as a trophy.”

“If I was thinking, it wouldn't be about _that_.”

“No?”

Gaston drank more wine instead of responding. He didn't have a good answer. He didn't like feeling exposed. It was very good wine, for all that it wasn't beer.  

“You still haven't told me what makes a hero,” the Beast said, after a moment. “I suspect your definition is different from anything I've ever heard.”

“It's simple, Beast. You have to be beautiful.” Gaston studied his dark green, distorted reflection. “You have to be beautiful, and you have to win.”

The Beast snarled some response. Snow fell outside. And Gaston knew that no one would care how exactly he killed the Beast. What either of them would be thinking when Gaston dealt the final blow. Whether the Beast had been lonely. Whether Gaston had kissed him before he died.

If anyone cared how death was meted, there'd be no such thing as war heroes.  

*** 

**Author's Note:**

> LeFou died before the start of this story. His death during the war is implied. He and Gaston probably committed some war crimes, if even Gaston thinks shit was fucked up, but the fic does not go into detail. I did not make any effort to realistically depict someone struggling with PTSD. Gaston's problem is that he is Gaston, not that he suffers from realistic mental illness or once fought in a war. It is implied that Gaston abuses alcohol.
> 
> Gaston believes that the Beast wants to die. He's probably not all wrong. But he is Gaston, so you probably shouldn't take his word on everything.


End file.
